


Tie Strength

by Kathar



Series: Two-Man Rule [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e09 Repairs, Smut, Strike Team Delta, VERY light bondage, cameos by Banner Rogers and Stark, minor Kate Bishop - Freeform, no holidays were harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:12:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not all angst and secrets, shower cams and inappropriately-timed sex-- once in a while everything comes together for Clint and Phil. For just one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tie Strength

**Author's Note:**

> This isn’t exactly a holiday story in that there's no holiday, just gifts and meals and family. It is, however, a holiday gift and a thanks to all of you who’ve strapped in on this rollercoaster of a series Faeleverte and I stumbled into.
> 
> It’s mostly porn and fluff, guys. For once.
> 
> Though she’s not listed as co-author here, the fabulous  Faeleverte may as well be. This is her fault as much as mine. None of this is the fault of Beta J, whose contributions-- as always-- have made this story speak and not mumble. 
> 
> If you're new to the series, it's possible to read this first- we've included anything you must know. But you'll get a richer picture if you start at the beginning. 
> 
> Tie Strength: (Social network analysis) Defined by the linear combination of time, emotional intensity, intimacy and reciprocity (i.e. mutuality).

If they raised one more time, he was going to be deciding between tossing his watch or his tactical knife into the pile, and Clint was pretty sure his three kings weren't going to stand up to scrutiny. Stark was entirely too fucking confident but he had no idea how reflective the window behind him was after dark. He wasn't a worry; it was Cap and his who-me smile over there that Clint didn't trust at all and he wasn't sure about Banner either. And yet, here he was, seriously considering whether he had anything besides the dive watch or the nasty little powder steel flip knife to ante up, because fuck if he was gonna be the first to go.

"Hey, Cinderella, you gonna decide anytime soon?" Stark drawled. 

Cinderella?

"Cinderella?" Clint asked as he began to dig in his pocket. "Last I checked none of 'em used a bow. What gives, Stark?"

Stark shrugged, in that only-half-paying-attention way he had.

"You're always outta here early. Either you don't like us that much, you're some kind of reverse vampire, or you turn into a pumpkin at midnight." 

"Aw c'mon, what'd you know from 'always'? How often have you been in your own tower lately anyway?" 

Less often than Clint had and for all he had a room of his own in the place, Clint wasn't by that frequently. That was why he'd ended up sitting around a poker table tonight, though he'd really only planned to drop in, pick up the package Stark had said was ready for him, and drop it for delivery before he went home. Stark had unexpectedly been in town to hand it to him personally, and he'd dragooned everyone into Avengers poker night. By "everyone" he meant Steve Rogers and Bruce Banner, or as he said, "just us guys, before Romanov gets back into town and kicks all our asses."

(Natasha's current mission was eyes-only up to Level 7, but Stark must have known that Clint knew that already and was just letting him know how much he knew that he shouldn't know. Which was fine by Clint as long Stark didn't know just how much Clint knew that he shouldn't know beyond what he was pretending that he didn't know Stark knew about and when had this become his life? He'd been working in an intelligence agency for over a decade without reaching this level of casual mindfuckery.)

"Got me there," Stark said. "Is this because of me? I'm flattered. Or you only stay late when I get Cap or Banner involved?"

"Late?" Clint stopped playing with his watch and looked at it. It'd stopped at half-past three sometime ages ago, and he had only been wearing it that night for... reasons. Not because it reminded him of anyone. Or ops they'd been on together back in Quito where the watch had been the only thing that got them out alive. Just... he just wanted something on his wrist, okay? But if it wasn't half-past three... he glanced over at the watch on Cap's wrist. 

Aw, no.

His cards were down on the table and he was halfway out the door before he finished saying "I fold!"

"What the fuck, Barton?" Stark called after him. "You don't _actually_ turn into a pumpkin, right? Or your rags turn into a ball gown or something? Because none of us have anything against cross-dressing, really. Right, Bruce? Back me up here. Cap? C'mon, Rogers, I don't buy that whole man out of time innocent act for one minute. What have you got to get home for, Hawkguy?"

Clint huffed and turned around.

"Gotta take the dog out, Stark."

"Oh, c'mon, like you'd notice in that apartment if the poor guy couldn't hold it!"

"Tony!" Oh, _now_ Cap interceded. Clint smiled thanks at him, a tight compression of lips.

"Then maybe I have a hot date, Stark." Stark waved his hands grandly.

"Bring her around," he said.

"Hot internet date."

"Be careful with those, you never know if they really are who they say they are. All right, all right, damnit Cap, stop glaring at me. Jeez, fine." He saluted Clint. "Go have your steamy internet sex or, you know, whatever it is you plan on doing. I'd say tell Romanov hi for me, but I like my balls where they are. We won't be long anyway, Banner's gonna fold in two and then Cap and I will throw down and I'll rake it in so Sleeping Beauty can call it a night." Rogers glared at Stark, and Clint took a moment to glance down at Roger's hand and snort discreetly. The man was clearly hiding the heart of a dirty, dirty bluffer behind those big baby blues.

"Yeah, good luck with that," he said to Stark. He didn't have to turn around as he left to know that Stark was narrowing his eyes at Rogers, or that Rogers was smiling cherubically back at him.

He figured he'd brought them all at least 20 more minutes of stand-offs and raising, and hopefully by that time Stark would be too distracted to bother trying to hack into Clint's feed.

Normally, he wouldn’t do this at the tower when Stark was in town. He and JARVIS had an... understanding. It had been surprisingly easy to come to an agreement with the AI. Clint had just acknowledged that if JARVIS saw anything that his algorithms suggested might hurt Stark's interests, the AI would pass them on. Otherwise, it was best not to bother his highly distractible creator with irrelevant data that was categorized as private anyway. 

As Clint slipped into his room and locked the door behind him, he snorted at that. Irrelevant data, indeed. So long as Stark thought he had him figured out, and thought that Clint thought he was getting away with using his beyond-state-of-the-art security to contact Romanov and hack into SHIELD servers, he was less likely to look underneath those activities and find out what Clint was really doing.

It was 22:59 when Clint finished the general set-up work on his phone and felt comfortable bringing up the encrypted feed that rode underneath another encrypted feed originating from an entirely other direction in SHIELD. He settled back into the overstuffed armchair that had slowly become his nest-away-from-home, and finished unbuckling his belt.

The video feed remained dark for a moment longer, and he started to get antsy. At 23:01, it flooded with light, and a very naked, very sexy man with not a lot of hair up top but a gorgeously furry chest stepped into his shower and turned on the water. Then he tilted his head up towards the camera and mouthed

"Hello, again. Miss me?"

Fuck yes Clint had missed him.

Clint slid his zipper down and resettled himself as Phil Coulson began to chat into the camera, just like he always did at 23:00 hours EST, and Clint began his nightly transformation into a puddle of goo.

This time, Phil started out with

"So the good news is life has been quiet for awhile, but the better news is that after that debacle a little bit back we've been limping the Bus along and she's going to be grounded for further repairs for a few days. Send the word and I can be in New York in ten hours, or wherever you are right now. Now, let's see, where did I leave off last time? Oh, yeah." 

His hand drifted down, out of view of the camera. After a moment his eyelashes fluttered and he came over all heavy-lidded and a little breathless. 

"I remember now,” he continued. “After I get your shirt off, I'm going to leave bite marks all the way from one shoulder to the other-- god, Clint, I could be doing that tomorrow. Say I can be doing that tomorrow-- and then I'll drop down to your nipple. Have I ever told you how good those damn things taste? I could suck them for hours, never get tired of tasting you--"

Clint's hand had burrowed itself inside his shorts and was hard at work, but as he moaned and listened, some little tiny rebellious part of his brain was already composing an invitation to work from home and make $85 an hour, just like the author (Trina from Baltimore) did. Once he'd emailed that off, Phil would be on his way and in ten hours he really truly would be in Clint's bed and--

Fuck.

Clint had a lot of cleaning to do.

 

_____

 

The black shirt, at least, had no obvious stains, and didn't smell horrible. Plus, it had recently shrunk in the wash and was sleeveless, allowing Clint to present his, hrm, assets, up front. He smoothed it down and bundled the other five options, each tried on at least twice in the last whirlwind half hour, back into the dresser drawer.

The buzzer sounded and Clint came down the stairs four at a time. Lucky still beat him to the door, pawing at it and barking happily. Clint took the time to laugh and ruffle his ears before pressing him back.

"You gotta let me get to the door, dog, unless you've developed opposable thumbs while I wasn't looking," he said as he fumbled at the locks.

God. God, god, god. He'd seen Phil most nights in the shower cam, since Phil had discovered it a little while back, and he'd done his best to return sexy fire through the medium of coded emails. But however good he was by now at enciphering dirty talk between the lines of come-ons for herbal Viagra and Paypal phishing emails, and however amazing Phil was at mouthing filthy fantasies (philthy phantasies?) over cam, it didn't make the ache go away entirely. 

It was fucking with Clint’s head, was what it was doing. He’d never had a this much of a problem being separated from Phil before, that was just the nature of their shitty, shitty job. When he was lonely he’d go find Nat or failing that drag Sitwell or someone out to a club. When he was horny, well-- he’d never had a huge problem finding someone willing to take care of that. So, okay, few of them had Phil’s, um, special ability to know what Clint needed. That was hardly a surprise, given the sheer weight of their shared history. 

No he hadn’t had a problem. Sure he slept a little worse, and didn’t get laid as well and he clung to Nat a little more closely because his shoulderblades _itched_ all the time. And sure he checked up daily-- hourly sometimes-- to make sure Phil had made all his check-ins. All that was natural; there was no one who really _appreciated_ his asshole side when Phil was gone. 

Because okay, yes, Phil was one of the most important people in his life and he’d have happily died for the guy, if the goddamn idiot hadn’t gotten himself killed first. This desperate want that had been happening since Phil showed up on his doorstep alive, though? It was starting to get seriously out of hand, and he didn’t trust his own reactions any more.

He thought Phil was reacting to it differently, too, but it was hard to tell from a distance. They'd left things in an odd place. Clint hadn't forgotten that the last time they'd seen each other, Phil had alternately been reaming Clint out for not telling him about the spy cam he'd planted in Phil's office, and, well, just reaming Clint. 

They'd both come out of the experience wrung out, emotionally as well as physically laid open for each other. Phil's fears about his weirdly unfamiliar body, Clint's about Phil being used against him, their mutual distrust of the agency they'd both given themselves to body and-- truthfully-- soul. There'd been no time to come down, debrief, put themselves back together. They'd snuck Clint out of the Bus with his ass still stretched wide. Phil had been lying to his team about their wild goose chase for the man who'd planted the bug before said man had even gotten himself off the tarmac.

And as soon as Clint finished unbolting the door, he could stop worrying and deal with whatever reality he saw on Phil's face.

The door swung open wide, but Clint didn't see anything at all.

He was too busy stumbling over Lucky as Phil mashed his face against Clint's and tried to drive them both into the wall.

"'Lo," Phil mumbled against Clint's lips, as Lucky yelped and squirmed out of the way of their tangled feet.

"'Lo yourself," Clint replied, releasing his lower lip just briefly. He reached out and shoved the door closed, then pulled Phil in closer, pressing their chests together so tightly he couldn't draw breath. For the moment, just that one moment, he didn't care.

Eventually Phil pulled back a little, but not before Clint's entire mouth felt swollen and tingly and restlessness and need had made his knees weak. They simply looked at each other for a long moment, and the idiotic delight that crept over Phil's face was reflected in Clint's, if the pain of smiling so broadly was any indication.

"I brought a dozen bagels?" Phil said, and Clint belatedly realized he'd been holding the damn sack the entire time, and it had been bumping against Clint's hip. That explained why Phil suddenly seemed to smell gently of onions and lox.

"That's very sweet," he said, kissing Phil quickly and starting in on his tie. "Especially since I don't plan on letting you out of this apartment for anything until tomorrow morning. But I'm more interested in eating you right now." Tie off, check. Jacket following. Time for the shirt buttons. Clint got to work as Phil laughed and nipped at his jaw.

"Where are you planning on starting?" he asked, and Clint decided that showing was better than telling and began nibbling and biting down Phil's chest, pushing off his shirt. He moved to the side a little as he hit the long, ropy scar that split Phil's chest, but moved back to the center as he neared the belly button.

He pressed in to lick, and was startled to feel the vibration of a gurgle against his cheek as Phil's stomach gave a really heroic growl.

After a long, startled moment Clint began to laugh, and he dropped his forehead to Phil's rib cage.

"Sorry," Phil said above him, in sheepish tones. "I didn't bother to stop for, well, much of anything. I was thinking more of you and less of food."

"'Salright," Clint said, "I might have skipped a meal in there too. Maybe we can feed each other--" his own stomach twisted-- "and then go up and continue where we left off. I’m pretty sure I owe you a shower." He stood up and moved back, gathering the bagel sack into his arms to prevent himself from grabbing Phil. "Why don't you go up and, um, freshen up or something. I'll get things set up." 

Phil grinned, kissed his cheek, gathered his clothes and padded up the stairs, Lucky following close at his heels.

 

___

 

There was nothing that could reasonably be called a serving plate in the kitchen cupboards, but Clint had cleared a space on the breakfast bar and set down paper towels before he tumbled out the bagels. Tubs of cream cheese and packets of lox followed, and he spent a short while arranging those artistically (removing the top of the cream cheese, folding open the butcher paper surrounding the lox-- that counted, right?) while behind him the coffee gurgled and spluttered its way into the pot.

He even set out _two_ cleaned mugs.

Little creaks from the loft floor let him know that Phil was still moving around, and faint scrapes told him that Phil was searching his dresser, likely for non-suit clothing.

Phil Coulson in a borrowed set of knit pants and one of Clint's t-shirts was one in a long line of fantasies Clint had steadfastly refused to examine critically.

If Clint was lucky, he might even come down barefoot.

A buzz at the door jerked him out of his foot fantasies. Above him, the creaks abruptly stopped.

"Come on, Clint," Natasha Romanov’s voice wafted through the door after a long minute in which he didn't move. "I know you're in there, up, and probably trying to hide from me."

"I am not," Clint said as he yanked open the door, "trying to hide from you." Natasha swept in past him, kissing his cheek as she floated by.

"Good," she said, "because I brought you a present." She held out a large flat box, wrapped in a paper with large pink balloons and multi-colored ponies.

"Aw, Nat you shouldn't have," he drawled as he stared at the box.

"I really shouldn't," she agreed in a low voice. "Do not make me regret this, Clint." They stared at each other for a long moment, her transmitting a complex series of threats, and him blinking in confusion, before she waved him on to open the box.

He frowned as he split open the tape at the edges and lifted the box top.

A large mass of black fabric was stuffed into the box, filling it nearly to the brim. When he held it up, it revealed otherwise hidden gold piping. A smaller twist of black fabric fell out, and he grabbed at it.

A hooded mask with eyeholes. 

"Nat, did you-- where did you-- but this belongs to--"

"You, now," she told him, setting a hand on his. "If you're going to claim the name Ronin, you may as well have the outfit that goes with it.”

"I appreciate it, Nat, I do, but-- I'm not really Ronin. I'm just using the name sometimes." He tucked the top back down over the rest of the box quite reverently, though. She came over to put her hands on his cheeks and stare up into his eyes.

"You're Ronin, Clint. You may as well face the fact. You've taken the name, you will take any consequences, you should not feel uncomfortable with the mask as well." And she patted both cheeks. 

"Well," he said, looking away from her. "I appreciate the vote of confidence. Or whatever it is. Thank you! A lot. Really." He reached out to peck her on the cheek. "You've got to be zoned; your mission parameters said you weren't due to land till this afternoon."

She shrugged. 

"I'm fine, Clint. I caught a ride on one of the quinjets. I have debriefing later; I’ll go home after that.” She’d moved over to the breakfast bar and was slicing open a poppyseed bagel with one of her combat knives. “What’s all this for?” she continued, gesturing with the blade.

Clint winced.

“Breakfast,” he tried. She raised an eyebrow. 

“So who’s upstairs, then?”

“Nobody? I mean--”

“Nobody you want me to meet.”

“No, just--”

“Yes, just. It’s not a one-night stand. You didn’t even let _me_ know the address of this place; I can’t imagine you’d bring a one-night stand here. Well.” Her face, unexpectedly, lightened. “That’s good, Clint. That’s well past time. You haven’t had anyone you’d bring home since you were posted out to Pegasus. As long as this… whomever…” she gestured in a loose circle with the knife, now covered in cream cheese, “is someone halfway decent.”

“Only halfway?” Clint realized he should be shoving her out the door with a babbled set of apologies: so sorry, but of course he wasn’t ready to introduce anyone to his assassin best friend yet. Instead he leaned on the breakfast bar and bit back the urge to tell her he’d missed her. Too.

“I’m tempering my expectations in light of your history. The only one I’ve thought was any good for you was Coulson. You’ve been different lately; both more antsy and more at ease. Figures it would be a new lover.”

“Yeah, hey, so,” Clint said, turning away to jab at the cream cheese with the plastic knife that had come with the bagels, “that probably means you should be leaving… soon. Like, great to see you, Nat, very glad you made it back, thanks for the, uh, outfit, but….”

Nat, his joy, his delight, his eternal frustration, leaned her elbows on the breakfast bar and settled in.

“I don’t have anywhere to be for a little while.” 

She was wearing her interrogation smile.

He dropped his head and reached for a bagel. Lucky’s claws on the stairs drew Natasha’s eye, and he heaved a sigh of relief as she moved away to greet the dog.

“Can you find a place that’s not here?” he muttered. “Instead of interrogating someone I’m hoping to get into bed in short order?”

She was silent behind him. It lasted for so long Clint felt the silence stretch then begin to crumble under its own weight. He looked up to find her with one arm around Lucky, and her other hand holding up a drool-bedecked tie in a subtle blue stripe.

She raised an eyebrow.

Clint opened his mouth to explain, only to have her cut him off by turning her back to him. She went over and draped herself over the bannister, leaning back to call up the stairs:

“Good to see you’re back in touch, Agent Coulson.”

There was barely a beat of silence before Phil’s voice, wry and pleasant, drifted back down.

“Good to hear from you, too, Agent Romanov. Help yourself to breakfast; I’ll be down shortly.”

Clint didn’t think anyone was going to pay attention if he tried to insist that it was _his_ apartment and _his_ breakfast (well, all right-- his coffee) and he wanted her gone so he could get back to pinning his boyf-- man-- handler-- ex-handler--lover-- _Phil_ against the wall. Natasha laughed at his sigh.

“You don’t get to be selfish, Clint, I’ve missed him too.”

“I know, I know, I just-- mostly I honestly don’t know what he considers your need-to-know.”

“Well if he’s trying to remain hidden, he shouldn’t leave his tie lying around where the dog can find it.”

"It could have been my tie, you know,” Clint grumbled.

“No it couldn’t, Clint.” 

“Well, it could have been someone _else’s_ tie, then.”

“This is a SHIELD-issue tie, Clint. Reinforced with a little sleeve for lockpicks or a camera.” Natasha flipped it over and looked at the tag. “It’s also apparently a Hermes. They don’t issue those to just anyone. Agent Blake doesn’t get one of these, I’ll tell you. That may be why he’s been even less… enjoyable… to work with than usual lately.”

“Oh, that who was handling you this op out?”

“Not directly, thankfully, but he was more involved than I would have preferred. Near the end I was set up behind the spire of a bell tower-- perfectly safe, thank you very much, tucked in quite well. And that _man_ comes up to the tower to berate me for taking undue risks. Meanwhile he’s leaning over the rail of the tower, very nearly doubled over it, to talk to me. The rail is centuries old and splintering badly and he doesn’t notice. He came away with a belly and palms full of splinters, so there’s some justice in the world. I nearly pulled him over, I tell you.”

“Pity you didn’t; no one would miss him,” Phil muttered as he came down the stairs behind Natasha.

She swung around as he stopped next to her and rose fluidly to her feet, cupping his cheeks and looking him straight in the eyes. (Which meant she was actually cataloguing his physical state from his head down to at least his spleen.)

“Hello, Natasha,” Phil told her, standing at ease and letting her get on with her inventory. “Have I mentioned how much I missed thi-- ow!” He rubbed the back of his neck as she pulled away, examining the blood on the thin blade she’d produced from… Clint wasn’t sure where, actually. 

“I had to check,” she shrugged.

“Yes I bleed, Natasha,” he told her, voice oddly gentle for the topic of discussion. “I checked. And I bruise, and my vitals are all normal. My digestion apparently works properly as well-- Clint already went through all of this.”

“What about cucumbers?” Natasha frowned at him, producing an eyeroll from the normally pulled-together Agent Coulson and a strangled laugh from Clint.

“He’s too scared to try, Nat,” Clint came to his rescue. For a given definition of “rescue.” Natasha spun to him.

“No different at all, then?” 

Clint shared a sideways glance with Phil, and they both ducked their heads at the same time.

“Kinda… different. We’re not done cataloguing yet. But….” he broke off blushing, not sure he wanted to say “but he can hoist me right up onto his dick while we’re both standing now.”

Phil came to _his_ rescue.

“I appear to be stronger, when I’m not thinking about it. And I’ve lost some muscle memory. I couldn’t clear a jam in my handgun without thinking about it, for a while.” 

Nat whistled.

“And he has a Tahiti thing,” Clint added, bending down himself to cuddle Lucky as he did so. The dog turned his good eye up at Phil as he looked away for a moment.

“Tahiti?” Natasha asked.

“It’s a magical place,” Clint chorused with Phil, who looked like he was swallowing something nasty as he said it. 

“Ah.” Natasha nodded, once. “Implanted memories, then?”

Phil looked, if possible, even paler than he had the moment before. 

“It’s seeming increasingly likely,” he admitted. “Especially as I’m locked out of my own death and recovery file. It’s apparently under Director Fury’s control.”

“Well.” Natasha looked him over one last time. “It appears you have this in hand for the moment. You will let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“You can start by telling me how you managed to get onto my Bus to plant that little cam in my office,” Phil said, but with that gentle voice that both Clint and Natasha knew, after long years, meant he knew he should be pissed, but was actually just impressed. 

Natasha turned and shot Clint a glance. 

“He found it a while ago, when I was on that Kansas op that Blake FUBARed. We, um, worked it out,” Clint told her.

“I see that. This visit is not your first, then, Coulson?” She knew damn well it wasn’t his first, and just wanted to make Clint squirm, he was sure of it.

“Anyone want their bagels toasted?” he said over the top of Phil’s reply.

 

_____

 

A round dozen bagels, several pots of coffee, and a couple slugs of cheap whiskey later, Natasha was curled up in a corner of Clint’s couch. She was currently smirking widely at the picture Phil had just sent her of a squashed and drooling Clint asleep on said couch, the first time Phil had visited after his death.

Clint was playing with Lucky and trying not to sulk.

They’d already dissected their various experiences with the Good Agent Blake over the past several months (“he _touched Lola_ ,” had been the whole of Phil’s contribution, in dark tones). More time had been spent in general catch-up and banter. Phil looked over at Clint every once in a while, curious or cautious, as Natasha brought up points about Stark Tower and the on-again-off-again nature of the Avengers. It was more than Clint had told him, he knew, but in his defense there’d been very little time.

And some significant distractions.

Anyway, Clint couldn’t say he minded precisely that Phil was getting a bit more filled in on his activities. Even without Phil at his back all the time, it settled something within him to know Agent Coulson was fully briefed. 

Finally, Natasha stood and smoothed her hands through her hair. 

“I’ve got debriefing in a half hour,” she said, and reached down to pull Clint up and hug him. This was followed by another, quicker hug to a very nonplussed Phil Coulson. Clint wanted to kiss the astonishment off his face, or eat it up, he wasn’t sure which, but it made him itch to see it. 

Nat smirked at him as she reached down to pet Lucky.

“I’m not through with you two yet,” she said. “I’ll be back in time for dinner. Please be wearing pants.”

She was halfway to the door before either he or Phil had started breathing again.

“Well,” Clint said to Phil as he closed the front door behind Natasha.

“Well,” Phil agreed, smiling benignly at him. There was a long pause.

“I think you mentioned something about a shower?” 

“Ah,” Clint’s spinning brain brought itself up short at that. “I did. I, uh, figured maybe it was time to cash in that raincheck on the shower sex. Sir.”

Phil frowned and grinned at the same time; a combination pretty much only he could pull off.

“Did I have that raincheck, or did you?” He was already moving up the stairs.

“Both of us, maybe, does it matter?” Clint asked, watching Phil’s ass shift under Clint’s pants as he ascended.

 

_____

 

“Heh,” Phil said, a tiny huff of air utterly at odds with the sounds he’d been making the moment before. Clint pulled back just a millimeter or so, resettling his fingers between Phil’s against the tile wall. 

Both of them were well into the lazy, luxuriating stage of a long shower that happened after you’d soaped and scrubbed and done anything useful you could particularly think of, and were just enjoying the drumming of hot water on flesh and the slip of someone else’s wet skin against your own. Clint was particularly enjoying the slippage at the present, as he had Phil pinned to the wall in front of him and was re-acquainting himself with the addictive lines of his neck and back.

“Somethin’ funny?” Clint slurred into the short hair at the nape of Phil’s neck, before biting once. 

Phil shook his head, eyes closed, a tiny helpless smile playing against the wall where his cheek was pressed.

“Better not be,” Clint muttered, and molded himself to Phil again, rocking forward to better place himself between Phil’s thighs, thrusting as he nipped. Phil shuddered once. Twice. Then in little convulsive jerks at his shoulders.

Fuckit, he was laughing.

“Fuckit, Phil, you’re laughing.”

“I’m not,” Phil said, fighting a smile. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re giggling.” Phil lost the battle, and the smile curved his ears up and pinked them. 

“Why?”

“No reason.” Clint nipped, and readjusted his hands, braced his feet. 

“Tell me?”

“No, really, it’s nothinnnnnnnnggohgod,” As soon as he heard the ‘no,’ Clint had started slipping down Phil’s back, pressing in hard as he did, fingernails blooming trails against the skin of Phil’s arms, shoulders, back, until Clint was on his knees, hands pressing Phil’s hips into the wall and biting-- hard-- where thigh met ass.

“Tell me,” Clint murmured into the inside of his thigh, breath hot against the damp skin of his balls.

“No, really--AH--” one hand had insinuated itself between Phil and the wall and started exploring.

“Tell me-- or I stop.”

“Damnit, Clint, it’s not… it’s nothing… I just… fuck. It’s just, you _cleaned._ ” Clint pulled away long enough to look up, water pouring over his face. Phil was looking over his shoulder, all twinkling darkened eyes. “You cleaned your _shower_. As in scrubbed to gleaming.”

“No fuck. Can’t fuck you in a dirty shower, sir.”

“Clint, you can fuck me anywhere you like, dirty or not.”

“Maybe,” Clint shrugged, nipped the flesh in front of his face and felt Phil buck. “But maybe I wanna be classy for you, sir. Give you what you deserve.” He tilted his head back down and continued his trail down the other thigh. “Show you how much you mean to me,” he muttered, resting his forehead, just for a moment, snuggling into Phil’s ass.

As he pulled back, he felt Phil twist, one hand coming down to rest on his shoulder.

“I--” Phil’s voice caught, and Clint couldn’t look up. He couldn’t. “I-- “ Clint nuzzled him, then backed off enough to grab a hip, flip him around and press his ass to the wall. Both hands landed behind his ears now, carding through his hair with short sharp fingernails as Clint began to circle Phil’s wet, bobbing cock with little nips. “Clint, I know. I see you. And I love-- that you did that. For me.”

"Good," Clint said, and had to pull off to prevent the lump in his throat from affecting his technique. Phil's hands had stilled in his hair, questioning. Clint slipped one hand down Phil's thigh and back up to cup his balls as he began circling again. Phil gasped above him once, then again, but his fingers slid to Clint's jaw. Any minute now he was going to tilt Clint's head up and see every fucking thing currently residing in Clint's eyes and no. Just... not yet. 

"Shower's not the only thing I got ready for you," Clint said in a low rush, just as Phil started to press upwards. The fingers beneath his jaw stilled. 

"Oh?" Phil said, his voice well on the ragged side of casual. "Clean sheets?" Clint smirked a little and went back to his detailed exploration of the warm wet skin on Phil's shaft. "Fresh bottle of lube?" That earned him a long warm stripe up the underside of his cock. Clint had reached Phil's head now and he paused, smiling around it, to say

"Nope. Well, yep, but there's one more thing." Then he tilted forward and swallowed Phil down, exhaling in relief at having Phil's girth filling his mouth once more, muffling him. 

"One more thing?" Phil repeated, and Clint nodded, working his way farther around Phil with the movement. His hands had dropped to his knees to steady himself, and he leaned forward greedily. Above him, Phil gasped. Then, before Clint could stop him, he'd shoved Clint back so that his cock sprang free with a juicy pop. Clint blinked up at him for the half second it took for Phil to crouch enough to get his arms under Clint's and heave him upwards. 

Clint was pressed chest-first against the shower wall before could catch breath, dizzy with the speed of it, and Phil had one hot palm pressed against his shoulder blades, holding him in place, while the other was already honing in on his ass, spreading it apart.

"God--" Phil choked off as his fingers found what they were looking for, and a moment later an experimental tug sent the plug in Clint's ass twitching. Clint jerked in shock as the movement brushed it against his prostate. 

"Surprise," he said, slurring a little since his cheek was pressed flat against the wet tile. "Didn't want to waste any time later, babe." The smooth wet weight that thumped down against his shoulder resolved itself into Phil's forehead. The huff of damp breath against neck made him shiver, caught between the pressure on his shoulder and the hand still playing down below.

"Clint, I--" Phil began, then stopped, hands massaging his muscles fitfully, hard to the point of hurting just that tiny delicious bit. Then he leaned in far enough to brush a kiss against the side of Clint's lips.

"C'n I get back to work, sir?" Clint asked when it became clear Phil wasn't going to be completing his sentence any time soon. "I'm pretty sure my lips are meant to be around your cock right now." He gave Phil a moment to think about that, before starting to push himself away from the wall.

"No!" Phil said, pushing back, holding him in place. The hand that had been massaging his ass stole back to the little ring at the end of the plug, pulled gently, and Clint bucked right back into the wall as pleasure shot through him again.

"Wanna fuck me right now, babe?" Clint asked when he had found his voice (or something approximating it-- he appeared to be operating in a much lower register than usual). He tried not to let the disappointment show, but Phil's contemplative grunt was proof he hadn't tried quite hard enough.

"I'm considering it. What's in your plan?"

"My plan?" Clint tried to shake his brain back into shape. "Suck your cock now, maybe finger you a bit while I do. Hell, maybe do it twice, take advantage of that quick reset of yours. Go downstairs, take the dog out, have dinner with you, remind you I've still got it in, just waiting for you later on." He paused, swallowing harshly against the dryness in his throat.

"Do go on," Phil's upper hand was caressing the back of his neck now.

"Get you down on the bed, after," Clint said, feeling Phil's hand beginning to tremble. "work it outta myself slowly, right over you. Make you watch me do it, then pin you down and shove myself right straight down on that fine goddamn cock of yours. Ride you like a fucking rodeo 'till you come so deep inside me."

"And what am I doing, while you fuck yourself on a toy right on top of me? Why aren't I the one doing it to you?" Phil was attempting to do that deliberately light, curious thing with his voice that he did so well on ops, but the words were so fragile they broke as they came out.

"Oh," Clint said, drawing it out while he tried to decide whether he was about to screw himself over. "Not much you can do, since I'll have you tied to the bed with your own fucking tie sir. Not letting you go till I say so."

Long silence behind him. Clint hoped it was sexy-shocked, not offended-shocked or, worse, "we need to have a talk about our feelings" silent. 

"That... sounds like a solid plan to me," Phil said at just about the point Clint was starting to consider the logistics of panicking. "Except for one thing." He slid both hands up to Clint's biceps, flexed his fingers, and dug into the muscles.

Clint found himself spun around and pressed back to the slick wall. His ass slid as Phil kneed him into a wider stance. His heart was working so far overtime it was pounding in his ears, let alone his chest.

"Hmm," Phil continued after a moment, looking into Clint's eyes then back down at his cock, which was showing a distinct and irrepressible interest in the proceedings. "Yes, definitely."

Then Phil slumped to his knees, letting the hot water rush over Clint's belly and outer thighs as well as the back of Phil's head, his shoulders, and on down. Phil contemplated Clint's hard-on for another long minute, then smiled to himself, leaned forward, and licked the tip.

It was nearly enough to make Clint come all over him. 

A moment later, when Phil dipped in further to slurp just the head between his lips, Clint had to whip a hand down and clench hard around the base of his cock, whimpering a bit as he threw back his head and screwed his eyes tightly shut. No fucking way he was coming so soon.

He felt Phil’s hands brace his hips, press them back into the slick wall, as water pounded on his chest. A gentle nip on the back of his knuckles loosened his death grip on himself, and Phil was able to nuzzle his way down to Clint’s balls, then start working back up, layering nips and flicks of the tongue until he was working his way back up the shaft. 

His lips were soft, just a little ragged at the edges where they’d chapped, and Clint could feel his knees buckle at the contradictory sensations they left all over him. The strong hands at his sides held him up, and Phil crowded his body in until Clint could rest his knees on the man’s shoulders.

“Just relax,” Phil whispered to him. “I’ve got you.” One hand started drifting down the outside of his thigh, then slipped off and disappeared from touch. Clint opened his eyes cautiously. Phil’s head was down, wet, still working over his shaft in tender little licks with occasional points of bright pain where he nipped. That wandering hand had slipped down to Phil’s own cock to compress it tightly, just for a moment. 

It started a journey upwards again against the inside of Phil’s thigh, as his other hand slipped off Clint’s hip and found a way to tangle its fingers with Clint’s. Clint brought his other hand up to steady him by gripping hard in Phil’s hair.

Phil laughed silently, a puff of air against his overheated flesh, and pulled back far enough to slip Clint’s cock back into his mouth. Clint whined, feeling his breath come shuddering out of him and his knees shake where he was braced firmly against Phil.

With an effort, he managed to get used to the bob of Phil’s head as he took Clint in, shallow dips interspersed with sudden dives that swallowed Clint to the root, letting the waves of pleasure wash over him without pulling him off in the undertow. Phil had set a rhythm that he could rock to for ages without coming, one as familiar to him as Phil’s breathing through a comms device. He settled in to enjoy the ride.

And then that damn hand, the one that had slowly been moving up the interior of his thigh, snuck back and tugged on the plug again, _just_ like it had before, and Clint’s corresponding jerk sent the back of his head cracking against the shower wall.

Phil chuckled around a mouthful of cock as Clint gasped.

The plug moved again. Not, this time, against his prostate, just a gentle, miniscule in-and-out rocking motion in counterpoint to the rhythm of Phil’s lips and tongue around Clint. His knees started to tremble again.

Up and down, in and out, tremble. Up and down, in and out, tremble. Up and _swallow_ , in and _rock_ , keen and quake. Up and down. The water drumming and thrumming against his chest.

It felt like it went on for eons, Phil slowly taking Clint to pieces, disengaging his fingers and pressing Clint back against the wall when it felt like he was going to fall over caught between the competing sensations. Clint’s breath, already ragged, gradually lost all continuity and he panted and groaned, yipped and keened, worlds beyond the use of words. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped in Phil’s hair, and his reality had narrowed down to hot water, a warm mouth, and devious hands.

Nothing lasts forever, especially not a blow job, and eventually Clint felt himself being pulled out to sea, over the edge of the world, and managed to whine “Please,” though he couldn’t have said what he needed if asked.

Phil knew anyway, must have, because he rearranged himself subtly on the tile floor in front of Clint, drew his head back, and then took Clint all the way down, throat swallowing around him and that damn plug brushing _right there_ again, then again and again before Phil pulled back enough to worry the head of his cock with a hard twisting suck and Clint just broke apart.

He came in waves, keening, knees locking, muscles spasming around the hardness in his ass, pulsing into Phil’s warm mouth. He dimly felt Phil swallow his come, bob gently against him until he was empty. When Clint collapsed, Phil’s arms came up to ease him down, settle him into his lap and drape them against the corner of the shower together. Water poured over them as Phil finished himself off.

Clint began to slip back into his own body just as Phil went stiff under him and came with a low groan, his come warm against Clint’s side for just a moment before it washed away. 

“I can’t move,” Clint rasped as he watched Phil twist his hand under the shower stream until it was clean. Phil chuckled and kissed his neck.

“You want Natasha to find us here? I think she did mention pants.”

“Shit,” Clint said, feeling life come suddenly into his limbs. “There is that.”

 

___

 

Natasha actually checked for pants as she came in the door carrying take-out.

It was, Clint knew, her version of a joke, even though her expression remained grave.

Phil twinkled at her in the understated way he did because he knew her sense of humor too, and she curved a there-and-gone smile at him.

Clint relieved her of the take-out and turned away into the kitchen so that neither of them could see the gratitude he was sure was burning its way out of his eyes. 

He hadn’t been sure, even after all his earlier conversations with Natasha about the possible reasons Phil’s recovery had been kept from them, by him and by SHIELD, how she would react to the man alive and in person. Of the two of them, it had been Natasha who had come closest to understanding the reason Phil would hold back-- a combination of duty to SHIELD and an underlying sense that something was off within himself. But that also meant she might be less happy to see him again in clandestine circumstances.

He should have known, Clint laughed to himself as he pulled hot aluminum tins gingerly out of the bags and glanced towards corner containing the Ronin costume in its box. When she said “love is for children,” she meant it to remind herself as much as anyone else. 

There would be, some time before she left, a moment when Natasha would get Phil alone and god knew what she'd say to him. And there would be another moment, after Phil left, where she sat Clint down and grilled him until every last little detail of the two Phil-visits she'd missed lay smoldering on the floor between them. It was probably for the best.

For right now, she just set out silverware and paper plates.

Lucky curvetted around them each in turn, yipping happily and snuffling for non-existent treats. 

They stuffed themselves on palak paneer and tandoori chicken, naan and potato-filled dosai, then stickied themselves on gulab jamun. Clint’s whisky stash declined by another several inches.

At some point in there, lounging around his shabby, homey little apartment, time seemed to blur and they were Strike Team Delta again, coming down after a long mission or killing time until extraction in a safehouse in some far foreign city. Lucky draped himself over Phil on the couch and whined in his sleep. 

Clint had lost the thread of the conversation and was halfway to asleep with his head on Phil's shoulder when the door to his apartment opened.

"Clint!" Kate Bishop snapped, standing open mouthed in the doorway, leveling a discreet black taser at all of them in turn.

"Okay, this looks bad," Clint said, as he slowly lowered the bow he'd grabbed from its spot on the wall above the couch. He reached over to slide the arrow back into the quiver dangling from his bookshelf as Natasha glanced over at him, then back at Kate, and nestled her own handgun back into her ankle holster. Phil lifted Clint's couch cushion and replaced the handgun that lived under it. 

"Hey," Phil said after a moment, "is that my taser?"

"No," Kate popped it back into her designer hobo bag and came into the room, shutting the door after her and bending down as Lucky came up to say hello. "It's mine. Clint gave it to me." It had been not long after she'd first started hanging out at his apartment, and she'd indulged his worry about the safety of the neighborhood thugs if she was wandering around at night with a bow as her only weapon.

Phil turned to Clint and gestured at Kate. He looked as betrayed as Lucky did when Clint jingled the leash and then didn’t follow through with a walk.

"That was my taser! I liked that taser, it's the one I used to threaten Stark with. Where the hell did you find it?"

"In your office on the helicarrier." Clint rasped back at him. "I had to beg a bit, but in the end Fury let me help clean it out. Didn't think you'd need to use it again. Sir." 

All of a sudden Natasha was very busy at the coffee table, clearing away plates and cups, and probably catching every nuance of the shifting expressions flitting across Phil's face. Kate lifted the curtain of her dark hair from her face as she looked up and shook a finger at Phil.

"You're that one guy!" she said. "Clint said you were dead!"

"Clint thought he was dead," Clint said. "Kate Bishop, Phil Coulson. Phil Coulson, Kate Bishop. Kate's my ward--" he broke off as they both boggled at him. "Or whatever," he finished. "Kate, Phil doesn't officially exist as far as Natasha and I are concerned, but you're probably allowed to know him." He glanced over at Phil, who shrugged.

"Good to meet you," Kate said, shaking Phil's hand. "I'm not giving your taser back."

"It's all right," Phil said in a patented Himself bland drawl, the kind that used to make Clint want to punch him, tease him, and fuck him in nearly equal measure. "I was planning on giving it to a young woman on my team, anyway. I'm sure I can find her another. Are yo--" he glared down at his pocket as it started vibrating. "Excuse me."

Phil moved to a corner of the room, his phone already to his ear as he sighed: "No, Skye, I'm fine. I'm flattered you worried, but I just... no, it wasn’t anything to… I’m smarter than... wasn't he buried in a train car in the desert, though?" 

Clint tore himself away from listening to that conversation in order to ask Kate what the fu-- _futz_ she thought she was doing.

"You weren't answering your phone," she snapped at him. "And you hadn't texted me to take care of Lucky, so you couldn’t be on a mission. I thought you might be in trouble, Clint."

Oh.

Oh. Yeah. 

His phone. That had been in his jeans pocket just before they ended up in a heap on the stairs leading to the loft. Must have fallen out. It was probably around here somewhere. If the battery wasn’t dead.

 

____

 

Kate didn't end up staying very long, although she'd been invited to by all three of them. Clint wasn't surprised; around other people, they never could seem to settle into the easy banter and one-upsmanship that he prized about them. Everything became a little forced, a little too much a display. Both of the wanted too badly to impress Natasha and Phil to be comfortable. Before she left, though, Kate gave Clint the "we're going to TALK" eyebrow. He caught a quiet snort from Phil at that, and wondered why everyone in his life seemed to have such expressive, disapproving browlines.

Even the dog.

Natasha had taken Phil aside while Clint chatted with Kate, and he'd caught the end of their conversation out of the corner of his eye-- largely because of the creepy "I'm being watched" feeling caused by the two of them staring at him. He refused to worry about it until after Phil left. 

"Be careful," she told Phil as she left, and "I'll see you soon," she warned Clint.

And then he and Phil were left alone in the apartment, staring at the door. Again.

"Well," Phil said after a moment. "If I remember correctly, you had some plans for me tonight. In fact, I believe you were saving me a place. Shall we?" And he scooped his tie off the breakfast bar and raised an eyebrow at Clint.

“I don’t see why not,” Clint drawled, and took the tie from his hands.

 

___

 

"Not that I don't always, always enjoy watching you get naked for me, Clint, but if you don't hurry it up a bit, there _will_ be consequences." Phil's growl was nearly enough to have Clint leaping on top of him, and the accompanying rattle he gave the headboard didn't help. 

"If you're so impatient, Mr. Bossy, you could help a bit." He gave his ass a tiny shimmy as he said it, letting his jeans catch on his pelvis on their way down. So he hadn't bothered to put on underwear. Nat had been their only planned guest and it was far from likely to shock her at this point. It made Phil's eyes darken with really flattering speed, and that was the only thing that mattered.

Phil responded to him by pulling once, hard, against the tie that bound his left wrist to the headboard. 

"I'm a bit tied up at the moment," he drawled. He was also entirely naked, Clint had made sure of that with great attention to detail, before he started in on his own clothing. Now he took a moment to look over his handiwork again, feeling his heart glop in his chest as his eyes lingered over Phil’s flexing chest, the dark warm scatter of chest hair, strong and whole despite the scar, then darting down to his shadowed haunches, edible legs and feet, toes…. What was he supposed to be doing, again? 

Stripping. Yes.

"You're well within reach of the condoms and lube, babe," Clint rolled one sock off his foot, resting it on the bed as he did. (It was nearly impossible-- nearly-- to make the removing of socks a sexy act. His usual M.O. was to toe them off with his pants. But if you really fucking played it up, with the right amount of flex in the thighs as you leaned, you could make it work.) 

Phil grunted, and stretched to rummage in the bedside table with his free hand. The twist that brought to his arm muscles, back muscles, ass, oh god, that ass....

Oh. Other sock. Right.

Phil returned triumphant from the drawer as Clint finished the last sock and started crawling up the bed towards him. The melting of Phil's expression from pride into predatory need as Clint approached was simply intoxicating. Clint hovered over him, ass resting lightly on his thighs, watching his cock fill the last little bit towards absolutely rigid, and grinned.

"Want me to take care of you, or can you do that one-handed?" he asked as he made gimmie gestures with his fingers. Phil grinned back at him.

"I can do a lot of things one-handed, Barton. One- _fingered_ , in a pinch. Which this is not." Then he tore the condom wrapper with his teeth, and flicked the condom free between his index and ring fingers. 

So Clint had seen that move before. It still set his own cock twitching to watch Phil spit out the wrapper and flip the condom over simultaneously. Phil had it halfway rolled down himself, Clint's thighs hovering so close the hair was brushing his knuckles, when he paused.

"Hey wait, is this one of the Pragues?" he asked, staring at the violet-colored latex half-covering his shaft.

"The Purple Prophylactics thereof? Yeah, it is. Nat's never gonna top that gift." Clint leered at him, though that was only true because the present she'd given him earlier that day was in a different weight class entirely. "One of the few things I salvaged from my old quarters. They just make 'em better in Europe."

"They do," Phil was finishing rolling it down now, but he was frowning at it as he did. "I'm just surprised you have any left, I guess. Much less, what, half the box? A box didn't used to last you so long." 

"Eh," Clint shrugged, leaning forward to nibble at Phil's nipple as he did so. "You used to account for most of ‘em. Haven't had much call to use 'em since you died." Then he sat straight up, and met Phil's slightly alarmed gaze. "I mean, think about it. I'm not here half the time. So. And these days I feel like I gotta do a background check before I bring anyone home, in case they're either a spy or a groupie. Not sure which is worse; spy's a spy, but what the fuck am I gonna do with a groupie? Give 'em breakfast and an autograph the day after? Just stopped being worth the trouble for the most part." He shrugged, an awkward move in his position, and dipped down to even out the nipple attention he was bestowing.

"And then you get a call from your not-that-dead-after-all ex-handler who needs you to make sure he's not an android and hide that from your employer, and that is worth the trouble?" The hand that came over to stroke the back of his head briefly was not trembling. Hopefully. Clint sat back on his haunches and snorted.

"Don't be a jackass, Phil, you're always worth the trouble. Now," he continued, when he realized that Phil had frozen, free hand hovering over the lube and bound hand clenched, "if you're very good and get yourself nice and lubed up, I might finally remove this plug and ride you until you can't see straight."

Phil's eyes dilated rapidly enough he might not have been able to see straight anyway, and his thumb flicked the lube open. 

Clint watched, humming approval, as Phil started to slick himself up over the condom, and tried to tamp down on the feeling that his heart was about to crawl up out of his throat. It was bad enough that Phil had apparently been listening to the idiot things coming out of his mouth, he didn’t need to make it worse by turning into a ball of mush on top of the man-- at least not until he was speared on that cock.

The spike of lust that shot through him at that image took care of his heart problem very nicely, thank you, as all available blood shot straight to his groin. He tilted forward long enough to catch Phil for a very _thorough_ kiss, and at least Phil was kissing all right-- better than all right. He was arching up into Clint and chasing his tongue like he’d been starving. Clint felt like his breath was being stolen right from his lungs and pulled back.

“Ready for me, babe,” he asked with a smile, letting one hand drift down between his legs. Phil watched it, and gulped.

“Fuck you, Barton,” he whispered. “Get on with it already.” The bedframe rattled again, and Clint resisted the urge to look up and check his knot. Even if his other hand hadn’t been free, Phil could have gotten out of that knot within ten seconds, if that. He appreciated Phil indulging the illusion of possession it was giving Clint.

Probably time to give Phil something in return, then, and stop trying to draw the moment out longer. It was only going to break if he wasn’t careful. 

Clint took a deep, steadying breath and reached the rest of the way beneath himself, hooking his fingers gently through the plug’s ring and giving an experimental tug. Phil’s eyes went wide and he caught his breath, and that was all the encouragement Clint needed to begin slowly working the plug out, shifting his hips as he hovered over Phil. After a moment he slid it back in, brushing against his prostate just like Phil had earlier, closing his eyes against the pleasure just that little movement brought. He felt Phil’s eyes on him as he worked the plug in and out, drawing it just a tiny bit further each time. He concentrated on the ache in him as he was left increasingly empty, bit his lip against a moan as he imagined how soon Phil would be filling him again.

Phil’s gaze on him, when Clint opened his eyes again and met it, was so hot it was nearly liquid, and he was panting already, his free hand hovering over Clint’s thigh as if he wasn’t certain where to lay it. 

“ _Please_ ,” he rasped, practically voiceless with need. Clint watched him for a long moment, feeling suddenly as empty in his chest as he did below, and then nodded slowly. He didn’t even want to think about what might be in his eyes as he took Phil’s hand and guided it gently to the plug, wrapping it around the flange. They drew it out the last bit together, and Clint took it from him as if it was glass before setting it on the bedside table.

“Now,” he whispered back at Phil, and settled himself so that the tip of Phil’s cock, still slippery and violet, rested against his open rim. 

“Now,” Phil replied, and Clint spread his hands firmly on the warm fuzz of Phil’s chest and pressed back and down. He closed his eyes and pleasure shuddered through him as he was filled, split open, warm and safe and free.

"Clint, god, babe. _God_ ," Phil was already quivering beneath him as Clint rocked forward and back, reseating himself with a twist, setting up an easy experimental rhythm while he tried to find his feet. He eventually did, resettling himself so his toes were curled into the bed on either side of Phil's hips and he could slide all the way up and off if he so chose-- which he didn't. He waited instead until Phil was beginning to buck underneath him, his free hand scrabbling at Clint's thigh to try and pull him closer and his own legs curling up to give him a chance to piston. Then Clint flung himself upright and sat down hard, impaling himself onto Phil. 

Phil made a sound so nearly like a wail it had Clint holding down laughter as he rocked back and locked his hands around Phil's ankles, fucking himself onto Phil with as much energy as his powerful thighs could generate. He could feel Phil's legs shaking beneath him, and a faraway scrape told him Phil had grabbed onto the headboard with his free hand as well. He twisted up into Clint as Clint rocked down, over and over again until all he could feel was the flex of muscle around him, beneath his thighs, on his back, and that impossible hardness inside him shivering him to pieces. He caught Phil watching him when he looked up for a moment, or rather, watching his cock, unprotected and on full display as they moved together. 

"Like what you see?" Clint tried to smirk, felt it come out as more of a rasp. 

"Yes, babe, jesus, fuck, yes," Phil panted, "love it. Need it. You. God. All of you. Fuck. Babe? Clint?" His voice had turned uncertain, maybe a little desperate at the end, and it made Clint's answer more gruff than he'd intended.

"Yeah," he asked, grinding down as he did so. "Phil?"

Phil was staring up at him with lost eyes, fucking up into him still with desperate strokes, shuddering each time Clint slammed down onto him. Clint was taking him apart bit by bit, and he wasn't sure Phil could even manage a coherent reply anymore.

Indeed, Phil's response was a strangled growl, and then his free hand shot out to Clint's knee and he pulled, bucking up with his hips as he did. Clint went over in a heap against him, barely keeping Phil inside him. He realized after a stunned moment that his hips were still going without him, circling just the tip of Phil's cock within him as he writhed. His own cock felt a million times better, or perhaps worse, pressed between their bellies and beginning to leak at the friction their movements were bringing to it. 

Phil wrapped his free hand around the back of Clint's neck and pulled him up just far enough that Phil could bite hard fast little marks all along Clint's collarbone.

"Promised you," he mumbled between marks. Yet another nip sent Clint rocketing skywards, and he settled his breath carefully.

"Know you did, babe," Clint responded, "knew you'd find a wa--hey-- HEY! Ow! Goddamn!"

Phil pulled back, looking both confused and pleased with himself.

"Too hard?" he smirked.

"I'll show you too hard," Clint muttered against his teeth, then he drew himself up and slammed back down on Phil, driving the breath from his own lungs and tearing a completely undignified yowl from Phil.

"God, YES, Clint" Phil demanded, reaching almost blindly to try and grab Clint's cock. Clint batted him away. "Yes, please, Clint, _please_ give it to me. You always, god, babe. You _always_. Always you. _Always. You._ Always..." he was babbling outright now as they fucked, and he came so far up Clint's ass when they met that Clint felt like his eyes were going to roll out of his head.

It was perfection. Tingling, aching, weak-kneed too-hard too-fast perfection, and Clint knew he was going to ache from it for days. He wanted it, wanted to feel Phil like a phantom inside him all the time, wanted to never let him up from the goddamn bed, wanted to fuck him so hard Clint's hearing blurred from the blood rushing in his ears and he couldn't hear, couldn't understand what either of them said to each other.

Couldn't hear himself gasping and sobbing "babe, oh, babe, give me... yes, love, fuck, babe, want it, want you, love... shit... _shit...Phil._ " He was coming before he could stop himself, only realizing as the heat shot out of him and spilled over his belly and Phil's that Phil had snuck a hand back up to his cock and had managed two decent strokes. It had been more than enough to fucking _end_ Clint, and he shook and shook and used the last of his strength to collapse forward, trusting Phil to find his own release.

Phil was trying, oh he was trying, thrusting upwards as hard as he possibly could into Clint, now too slack to help. After a moment he growled and used his free arm and his hip to fling them over. Clint felt the air huff out of him as Phil crowded himself forward over Clint, pulling upwards until he could lean on the elbow of his bound hand and brace himself on the bed with his free one. From that position it took him only a few desperate thrusts of his own which Clint felt as a welcome burning in his loose muscles, before he was coming too. He froze on top of Clint as the pulses started, keening as he convulsed, ages of rhythmless frantic little slams against Clint's ass before he collapsed to the side. Clint went with him, staying on him and managing somehow to end up tangled around him with his head cuddled under Phil's chin.

Phil was panting against him, or maybe weeping, his breath hot. Clint felt like weeping himself, far too drained to be able to drift off to sleep, useless to do anything but tremble like underset gelatin.

A puddle of goo.

Every single fucking time. 

Phil's pants subsided after a time and he nuzzled into Clint, breath evening out until Clint realized with distant shock that he'd gone to sleep, still tied to the headboard and slowly softening inside of Clint. 

Clint fucking gave up at that point, and closed his eyes too.

 

____

 

Phil was already out of the bed when Clint woke up in the morning. He padded downstairs, clean and damp, to find Phil lounging on the couch with Lucky's head on his lap, a bagel in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.

"Good morning," Phil said, and his smile was so soft Clint choked in the middle of reaching for the coffee pot.

"Nggrlmph," Clint responded, and drank straight from the carafe in his shock. 

Phil's smile grew, if anything, wider and fonder and Clint wondered if Phil knew just what the fuck he was doing. Because no _shit_ Phil was fond of him, and he was fond of Phil-- if any word that small could properly describe their complex mess of lust, friendship, reliance, history, and inappropriate behavior that really should not have worked as well as it did. But that fucking smile, that was something new on the man, and he wondered what exactly it meant. 

It maybe meant he shouldn't do what he was about to do, but Clint was certainly gonna do it anyway and damn the fucking consequences. 

"Hey," he said when the coffee had scoured away the last of the morning fuzz from his tongue. "I got something for you before you go."

"Better give it to me soon, then," Phil said, and fed the last of the bagel to Lucky before standing. "I didn't want to wake you up, but I've got to leave really soon. I've already got a worried team, and Skye's only going to be able to buy me so much time." He'd come over as he talked, and was going to be in Clint's space in about two steps.

"Here," Clint said, pulling a package from the drawer next to him and thrusting it at Phil just before Phil could slide his arms around Clint's waist.

Phil took it, looking a little nonplussed, and opened it-- after which he looked even more nonplussed.

"It's a card case?" he asked, turning the little polished metal case in his hand.

"Close," Clint told him, swallowing. "It's _also_ a card case. But it's, um, here." He pulled out a case of his own, flipping it open briefly to show a single card, with his face and an Avengers logo.

"Is that... that's an Avengers ID card." Phil's voice had curled up a little at the end, and Clint smiled helplessly at him.

"You fucking fanboy," he said. "That should not be as hot as it was. Yeah, but the _case_ , Phil. Press on the logo, then tilt it a bit."

Phil did, and while he did, Clint fiddled with his own case, holding it up so he was looking right at it.

Phil gasped after a moment, then said:

"Nice set of nostrils you've got there, Barton. I really admire the nose hair."

"Sorry," Clint said and pulled it back. "Better?"

"Better." Phil was smiling now. "A portable Clint cam. Is it waterproof? Can I take it in the shower with me?"

"You ca- _an_ , but you don't need to. Depress the screw on the right-hand hinge. It's two-way. Ah, _there_ you are you handsome devil," he said as Phil's smirk appeared on the brushed aluminum cover of his own case.

"A two-way directional video device," Phil breathed, "and privacy screened. This has to be Stark. How the hell did you get him to make this without telling him--" he cut off, looking up at Clint anxiously.

Clint shrugged.

"Stark's a smart cookie. He knows I don't trust SHIELD as far as I can throw them, and he's using that. He also knows I want to talk to someone within SHIELD without SHIELD knowing. He just thinks it's Nat."

"Ah."

"Ah, indeed" Clint smiled at him, and found Phil smiling back. "It's got some top of the line encryption technology too, and it works off a satellite feed instead of bouncing off of SHIELD. Wanna give it a test run tonight?"

Phil looked back down at it, and up at Clint.

"No more spam, no more shower cam?"

"Well, if you want, I could always ask you to transfer dollars five thousand US to me in earnest of your intentions to have honest dealings as we smuggle out a fortune in unclaimed oil proceeds. For old time's sake. But babe," Clint snaked an arm around Phil's waist, underneath the smooth lining of his jacket. "I...." he found his words drying up as he stared into the blue of Phil's eyes, twinkling brightly at him in the early morning light. "... I'm glad you came," he finished, sounding lame in his own ears.

"Coming for you is never a hardship," Phil replied, and the waggle of his eyebrows meant he was trying to be lecherous.

He failed by a country mile. Clint kissed him quietly, thoroughly, and sent him on his way.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Up next: Faeleverte delivers a present of her own… in Clint’s pants! 
> 
> You can find us on Tumblr:
> 
>  
> 
> [Kathar](http://kat-har.tumblr.com)  
> [faeleverte](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com)


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